


Unfinished Melodies

by ImNotAttractedToPans



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Music, Ouija Boards, Strangers to Friends, but i wanted it to be, ghost - Freeform, the love is implied, this thing is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:47:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNotAttractedToPans/pseuds/ImNotAttractedToPans
Summary: Brendon has had a ghostly stalker since freshman year of high school.This is the story of how he bought a ouija board to try and get them off his back and ended up falling in love.





	Unfinished Melodies

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta, this took way to much of her time but she's getting chocolate as a reward so its okay.

  
Dallon sat atop the brick pillars that held the gate of the school upright and surveyed the new arrivals of that year. He swung his legs as new teenagers entered the grounds, a slight smirk on playing on his lips as optimistic faces walked through the gates.  
  
‘I love you’s’ were shouted from the insides of cars as their kids walked away from them, clutching the straps of their backpacks with white knuckles. The smell of exhaust heavy in the air as parents left their children to the mercy of high school.  
  
Someone face planted into his pillar, a shout half indignation and half pain rang out. Angling his head down so that he could see the person who was now holding a hand to their nose and yelling very colourful things, Dallon tried to get a glimpse of the person's face. They removed their hand from their nose, their fingers dabbing underneath it, presumably to check if it was bleeding.  
  
Dallon stared at the person — a boy, probably a freshman judging by his small stature — with interest, tilting his head in a way that was reminiscent of a dog faced with a puzzle. The presumed freshman glared at the pillar with daggers in his eyes, a nasty scowl on his face.  
  
“Brendon!”  
  
The boys head snapped towards where the sound had come from, another of a similar looking age came barrelling towards the one who assaulted Dallon’s favourite pillar. “Spencer!”  
  
“What the fuck did you just do?”  
  
“I ran into the fucking pillar.”  
  
A beat of silence rang between them.  
  
Then suddenly laughter rang out between them, the shorter boy — Brendon? — doubled over, the other — Spencer? — clapped him on his back “You’re a fucking idiot.”  
  
“At least I can admit to it!” Spencer let out an undignified squawk at that, hitting Brendon again.  
  
“Who do you have for homeroom?”  
  
Spencer let his laughter die down but kept the grin on his face “Um… Mrs Silberstein, I think?”  
  
“Oh fuck, I heard she’s insane. Like she has five cats who ate her husband?” More laughter.  
  
“What ‘bout you?”  
  
“Mr Ford.”  
  
“Who’s he?”  
  
“No idea.”  
  
A warning bell rang out, causing the boys to quickly rush towards the actual school building a string of insults thrown at each other all the way.  
  
And Dallon?  
  
Well, Dallon, for some fucking reason, decided to follow them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He had ended up following Brendon the entire day, and the next, and the next, until it was the first day of the boy's senior year. Dallon had been there for all of it. For the day when he came to school with that shaggy haircut gone in favour for what he thought was called a “quiff.” For the day when he had asked Ryan Ross out. For when it enviably failed. For when he and Sarah had gone to prom together and started a relationship. For when she told him she was moving away in the middle of a chemistry lesson.  
  
This would happen every couple of years. He would find someone amusing and start messing with them. Making their homework "disappear.” Changing the songs that were playing through their headphones. Uniting their shoelaces. Harmless things really. Something to pass the time.  
  
Sitting atop his favourite pillar, he waited for Brendon to arrive at school. He swung his legs back and forth, the back of them hitting the brick every time they fell backwards, created a slight bounce.  
  
He hummed a soft tune underneath his breath as he scanned the crowd. He could see the chaos of the first day again, feel the excitement of summer entering the cold building.  
  
He grinned when he saw the now familiar head of brown hair; the glasses and hoodies of freshman year long gone.  
  
Hoping off the pillar he landed on solid ground and made his way over to Brendon, unintentionally walking in on what was probably meant to be a private conversation between him and Spencer.  
  
“I’m gonna do it.”  
  
“No, you’re not!”  
  
“Yes I am, I bought a fucking Ouija board for this shit!”  
  
“And I fucking told you that was a stupid idea, but do you listen to your dear friend Spencer who is, may I remind you, always right? No! You go out and buy a Ouija board to contact the ‘ghost’ that you claim has been following since freshman year!”  
  
“How do you explain the fact that doors always open before I walk into them?”  
  
“Automatic doors!”  
  
“Do not exist at our school.”  
  
Spencer heaved a heavy sigh, almost loud enough to be heard over Dallon’s cackling from where he had been forced to rest in an effort to keep himself from falling over. “The janitors gonna bust you for trespassing.”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
“You’re insufferable.”  
  
“You know I am, baby!” Brendon threw a truly heinous attempt at a wink in Spencer’s direction, causing Dallon to start laughing again.  
  
“If you get arrested, I’m disowning you.”  
  
“Well, you’re gonna lose me very quickly if that’s what's gonna get me kicked outta the gang.”  
  
“Never mind, you’re disowned. Go away.”  
  
Brendon laughter mingled with Dallon’s, creating a song only the latter could hear, wildly different pitches flowing together in harmony. “I’m doing it.”  
  
“I don’t care what you do.”  
  
“I’m so glad you care, honey!”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Turns out the ‘thing’ that was gonna get Brendon arrested was attempting to summon a ghost in the boiler room of school at 3 am.  
  
He set up the Ouija board he had bought on the floor and surrounded it with candles. Drawing a circle of salt around himself, he sat down in front of the board where he placed his hands on the little plastic triangle

“Um… hello? I guess. Is there anyone there?”  
  
Dallon, who was sat on the opposite side of the board to Brendon, started to let off a string of chuckles. Propping his head up with his arm, he watched at Brendon started to babble

“I read online that 3:33 in the morning is, like, the witching hour. So um… if you’re here I would like some confirmation. Because you’ve been like tormenting me since like, freshman year, and it’s starting to get annoying. Sometimes I just wanna listen to some Sinatra without the song changing every five seconds! And were you there for, like, when I got a boner in assembly, because I fucking swear I felt a chill go down my spine.”  
  
At this point, Dallon was once again doubled over, in a full on clutching his stomach deep belly laugh. He collapsed onto the floor, the action causing the candles around him to go out.  
Brendon’s eyes immediately locked onto the change in atmosphere, the smoke from the candle rising slowly into the air.  
  
“Ok, so this morning I was totally ready for this to happen but now I’m kinda freaking out about it. Holy shit I might have just summoned a demon; holy fucking shit this is how I die isn’t it? Oh, my god, Spencer was fucking right. Who am I kidding he’s always right, oh my god you’re a demon who’s marked me aren’t you. Why don’t I carry a fucking cross on me at all times?” Brendon’s voice became more hysterical the further down he spiralled, keeping his hands on the plastic triangle on the board the entire time. The more he talked, the more Dallon laughed. Dallon made an aborted attempt to stand up and in the process knocked over one of the many candles in the room, creating a semi-solid river of red.  
  
Dallon heard a high pitched scream, turning his head to look in the direction of where the sound had come from, he saw Brendon looking in his direction with eyes as big as saucers. He glanced behind him to see what Brendon was staring at and what had presumably caused him to scream. Seeing nothing he turned back to his unwitting companion, smiling at the hysterical look in his eyes.  
  
Siting up, he looked back and forth between what he thought Brendon might be staring at and the man himself. Tilting his head to the side, he crinkled his eyebrows, an amused frown forming on his face.  
  
“Watcha looking at, Beebo?”  
  
“Beebo?” The look on Brendon’s face was one that Dallon would cherish forever, it was an indescribable mix of hysteria and confusion. He didn't realise what the other man had said for an embarrassingly long time.  
  
“Did you just say Beebo?”  
  
A slight nod from Brendon.  
  
“Can you hear me?”  
  
Another nod.  
  
An ear to ear grin split across Dallon’s face “Radical!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m Dallon.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“God, I haven’t spoken to another person for such a long time.”  
  
“What?” the word was said with an embarrassing crack, Brendon’s voice started to grow to an almost ungodly volume. “What the fucking fuck? I’m having trouble understanding so if you could please–”  
  
“Oh! Right! Well, I’m Dallon, I’m 17. I like long walks on the beach and romantic candlelit evenings. I play bass and–”  
  
“As fascinating as all this is, I need to know how you got down here and why you look like the 80s threw up on you?”  
  
Dawning an offended face, he clutched his hand to his bright pink neon sports jacket. “This is more stylish than anything you have ever put your filthy hands on.”  
  
Brendon raised an unimpressed eyebrow and gestured to his own outfit.  
  
“I stand by what I said.”  
  
“I still don’t understand what’s going on.”  
  
“Oh! I’m the ghost you tried to summon.”  
  
“You’re the ghost that’s been following me since freshman year!” The silence that answered was confirmation enough. “Um… why?”  
  
“I dunno. Something to do? You amuse me.”  
  
“Messing with me is something to do?”  
  
“Yeah, bro. Death is lonely.”  
  
“Now I’m sad.”  
  
“Deal with it. You’re the chosen one.” Dallon wiggled his fingers a little bit, a suggestive smirk on his face. Laughter rang out.  
  
“So… why did you choose to reveal yourself now?”  
  
“Reveal?”  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“No! Wait, fuck!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“So how did you die?”  
  
It had been a couple of weeks since Brendon had become aware of Dallon’s existence and the human’s endeavour to ask all his burning questions was well underway. It was so that Dallon was beginning to tire of the person he had spent 4 years following.  
  
“None of your damn business.”  
  
“Come on.” Brendon dragged the ‘o’ out for longer than necessary, adding of the annoyance of his unbreakable persistence.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Don’t you trust me?”  
  
“No, you’re an untrustworthy piece of shit. The incident in Sophomore year proves that.”  
  
Brendon clutched the part of the t-shirt that rested above his heart “You wound me!’  
  
“Good.”  
  
“What about I guess and you either confirm or deny?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did you fall down a manhole cover? Because I feel like tall people don't have complete control over their motor functions."  
  
“You just think that because you're short."  
  
“Fuck, you. Did the janitor murder you?”  
  
“Yes, Brendon. You have correctly guessed how I died, the 108-year-old janitor beat me to death with his mop.”  
  
“No need to be sarcastic.”  
  
“Wrong, there is always a need to be sarcastic.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“Was that sarcasm Mr Urie?” A smirk tugged at the ghost’s lips, their colourless tinge showing that he truly was what he claimed.  
  
“No, I would never, Mr… huh, guess I don’t know your last name.” he cast a hopeful look at the other, a cue card that was being ignored by its intended recipient. “You gonna tell me?”  
  
“Is this information vital to your survival?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Raising his eyebrow in a silent challenge, Dallon grinned “Good, I can get rid of you.”  
  
“First you won’t tell me how you died, now you won’t tell me your last name. You’re a fucking mean ghost.”  
  
“How would you know? You ever met another ghost? Maybe I’m the average. Maybe I’m what other ghosts aspire to be. Do you know? No. And you never will.” He ended his argument with a self-satisfied glint in his eye, lips stretched over his teeth as if baring them, daring Brendon to contradict him. He thought it was working until Brendon started pouting. He was no stranger to the pout, he had seen it be used a countless number of times on other people: Ryan the first time he caught Brendon cheating, Spencer when Brendon forgot to do his homework, even Sarah when she told him long distance would never work; but it had never been turned on himself before. He tried to stare it down, Brendon not letting his expression change for a full minute.

“Weekes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My last name, you bitch.”  
  
“Fuck, you!”  
  
“I just gave you my last name, you asshole. This is how you repay me? I was joking before but you really are a terrible human being."  
  
“Fuck you! I’m amazing!” Brendon had his arms out as if to say ‘Fight me, Bitch.’  
  
“Are ya, though?”  
  
Brendon lunged forward, a poor attempt at a tackle as his body went right through the ghost, and unfortunately landed headfirst into the concrete of the boiler room  
  
He yelled out as he made contact with the hard rock, clutching his head while whining about how it was a stupid thing that ghosts weren’t corporal. Dallon, on the other hand, was on the floor next to him, clutching his stomach in silent glee. The beginning of a tear started to gather in the ghost’s eye, he inhaled loudly before continuing his abdomen clenching laughter.  
  
As he started to calm down Brendon let out another whimper, causing his laughter to be renewed.  
  
“You’re a fucking, jerk.” Dallon tried to reply but ended up choking on a combination of spit and air, causing Brendon to let out a huff of laughter.  
  
As they both settled down, Brendon stopped clutching his head in pain and Dallon managed to calm down enough to breathe normally again. At the same time they both heaved heavy sighs, causing them both to chuckle, Brendon turned his head to look at Dallon, eyes catching on the rise and fall of his chest.  
“Do you even need to breathe?”  
  
Dallon was silent for a second, quiet contemplation written across his face “I don't think so. But at this point, it’s an automatic thing that my brain thinks I need to do. So while I don’t think I need it for survival… I think I want it as a reminder. Ya, know?"  
  
“I mean; I guess? I’m not dead so, I can’t really weigh in.”  
  
Dallon answered with a non-committal hum, a deep sound that pulled itself out of his chest.  
  
“So you’re 17, right?” Dallon looked at Brendon for the first time since they both ended up on the floor, a small smile graced his face as he realised Brendon remembered some of the very first words he said to him.  
  
“Yeah, born in ’71!” The words were said with an amount of enthusiasm that, quite frankly, astounded Brendon.  
  
“Wait! Does that mean you were alive for the first Star Wars movie?”  
  
“Yeah! my dad took me to see Star Wars when I was six. Was fucking amazing, every time I would go to a friend’s house after that we would hit each other with sticks pretending they were lightsabers. I remember Halloween that year, it was like 4 days after the movie had premiered and like half the people were dressed in robes making whooshing sounds with sticks.”  
  
“That's fucking wild, man. So you’ve seen all of the original trilogy?”  
  
“What do you mean the original trilogy? It’s the only Star Wars trilogy.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Brendon knew he shouldn’t do it, he knew it.  
  
So why was he sat in front of his computer right now with a new tab in google open? The words ‘Dallon Weekes Palo Verde high school’ stared at him. He stared back, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to win a one-sided contest.  
  
He trusted Dallon, and he knew that he could eventually wear him down… but this was just easier than asking again and again. And he never claimed to be a saint. If there was an easy road, he was gonna take it.  
  
He took a deep breath and hit enter, watching blue links of information develop in less than a second.  
  
His eyes immediately drawn to the first link, a news article about his school in 1988, titled “4 Killed in Attack." He hovered the mouse over it, one last debate with himself before he clicked it.  
  
The webpage loaded and he was greeted with an image of Dallon and three other kids. Judging from the general vibe that they gave off, they were school photos.

Dallon looked almost exactly the same as he did now.

Scrolling down he read about how a student had come into the school with a semi-automatic rifle and open fired. He felt his eyes grow wider and wider as he read the list of four casualties, the last one - printed in black and white on a digitally converted newspaper article - Weekes, Dallon.

Brendon sat staring at his computer for an amount of time that was probably socially unacceptable. A small noise made its way out of his throat, a choked sound. Ugly and guttural.

He forced himself to read the bastard’s name who had killed his best friend. Martin Binsfeld.

The article went on to explain that the reason Binsfeld had decided to shoot the school was because kids were bullying him. That as tragic as the event was, it was essentially an act of teenage outrage.

Brendon scrolled back up to look at Dallon’s school picture, he thought about the Dallon he knew, the one who was stuck in the same neon pink windbreaker and highlighter green sneakers as he, presumably, died in. He thought about the dry humour that was by now a staple of his speaking style. He thought about how the bastard who shot him is probably in his late forties now, but Dallon would forever be stuck with a bit of acne on his face.

And screamed.

 

 

 

 

 

  
“‘Sup, Brendon!”

“Hey, Dallon.” The words were said with a lit that detailed a long night, dark purple circles under brown eyes. A smile that held a pitying sadness Dallon had never seen on the other teen.

“You okay, dude?” Dallon had a joking grin on his face, attempting to shove his shoulder into Brendon’s, he went right through his arm, stumbling to right himself again.

“You realise that if you were alive today you would be forty-seven, right? Like you would probably have a job and a wife. And like a dog, probably. Do you even like dogs? I feel like you would be the kind of person to have a dog and name it Gershwin or something like that.”

“Do I exude that vibe?”

“That's not the point. The point is that you still have spots when you should be married with kids! The point is that you don’t get to keep on living when the guy that shot you is probably living it up the suburbs!” Brendon was standing in the middle of the boiler room, sweat running down his now red face, eyes wild and shifting, perfectly complimenting the frazzled way his hair now stuck out from his head at odd angles.

“How’d you know about Martin?” The words were spoken quietly, barely above a whisper. Like a poor attempt to not rile up a wild animal, and an even poorer attempt to not show the fear he felt.

“I Googled you.” At Dallon’s quizzical look he elaborated. “Like, I found an article on the school. The shooting, I mean.”

“It's been a long time, Brendon. I’ve learned it’s a real shit time mourning yourself, so I got over it. Yeah, Martin’s definitely not a good guy, but I’m dead, and there is nothing I can do about it."

Brendon looked at his hands fidgeting in his lap, eyes sad and restless. “Do you think ghosts get closure?”

“I… I don't know. I guess we do, I mean I’m the only one left out of the four of us, everyone else disappeared after a while. I never really questioned it.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, we were already dead. Sure it was sad when Patrick disappeared, but there's not much we could do right? And then the others followed. Maybe they found closure, maybe they didn’t, I can’t really ask them can I."

“What would your closure be?”

“How am I supposed to know? I had my whole life ahead of me. It could be anything.”

Dallon plonked himself down next to Brendon, a sad smile marring his features. Brendon looked at him, a similar expression in place. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Rock Star. Obviously.”

“Did you write any music?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
“No, that doesn’t sound right.”

“You’re very bad at giving instructions.”

The boys were in the school's music room, Brendon’s own fender shined against the school's donated equipment. Loose sheets of paper with lyrics and chords written all over them strewn around him in a circle on the floor. Brown eyes looked at the dead teenager hovering in the yoga position four feet away from him. Dallon had his hand on top of his heart and an expression on his face as if he just smelled something horrible.

“I’m not the one who can’t play a simple progression of chords.”

“I’m a fucking musical genius.”

“You’ve been proving that theory wrong for the past three days.” Dallon’s matter of fact expression matched the infliction of his words perfectly.

“Fuck off.”

“Your reliance on profanity just proves how immature you are… Put your middle finger back in its holster.”

Brendon put on a sarcastic smile and gave a cheeky little wave in Dallon’s direction. He looked down at his printed messy handwriting. Random little notes written in red marked Dallon’s own lyrics, words that were easier to sing that were simultaneously mixed in with nonsensical notes such as 'Let’s Boo Boo.’

“I wanna do a part at the end of this song where I just riff. Let my magnificent voice do what it wants for like thirty seconds or so.”

“I really can’t stop you, you’re the one with the hands that can actually hold a guitar. To be clear, that's not me saying you’re good at it, just that you have a significant advantage in the corporal department.”

“The fact that your letting me play your music is proof enough that you think I’m worthy.”

“Or maybe it’s just proof that I have no friends.”

“I’d say that's a shame but I’m getting free music out of this so I really can’t be too sad.”

Dallon arched one eyebrow and shook his head at the younger teen

“Why do you even want this music?”

Brendon’s face turned beet red in less than a second, he ducked his head so that he was looking at the worn strings of his favourite guitar. When he spoke his voice cracked in a way that only teenage boys’ voices can crack.

“I, uh, I’m tryna get you some closure.”

It was Dallon’s turn to have some colour rise to his cheeks “Pardon?”

“You wanted to play music, didn’t you? And since you very obviously can't do that, I was thinking I could do it for you.”

“Look, Brendon—“

“There's a talent show coming up, and I thought I could play your music. It’s obviously not a rock stars’ gig but it’s as close as this is gonna get.”

Brendon was clutching the neck of his guitar in a vice-like grip, his knuckles turning white as he fought to keep his voice from becoming quieter with embarrassment.

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
Brendon stood in front of the crowd, red guitar strapped to his shoulders and its neck strangled by his hands he gave a nervous, but none the less dazzling, smile.

The track he had pre-recorded in preparation started to play, loud and electronic and so distinctly 80’s that it was jarring against the previous acts of modern pop music. Brendon started to play the first couple of chords as the energy of the music steadily increased until it was time for Brendon to show off his pipes.

Brendon sang his way through Dallon’s lyrics, bridging random lines with vocal riffs that at certain points resembled the guitar he was playing. He could see the neon pink of a certain ghost’s sports jacket reflecting the lights that bounced off the stage, a big bright grin on its owners face.

Brendon came to the end of his performance, his fingers indented from pressing the chords into the strings, his voice raw from singing with everything he had. His hair sweaty and dripping with hair gel while his eyes were bright and his tail was bushy.

The last chord of the song struck, a strong electric sound that echoed around the room for the split second it took for the audience to start screaming their approval.

He looked back at the neon jacket to see Dallon waving at him in small jerky movements, his body quickly becoming more and more transparent. He seemed to turn to talk to someone, then gave a small smile in the stages direction.

Brendon watched his best friend disappear in front of his eyes while the sound of applause thundered around him for music he didn’t even write.

 

 

 

 

 

  
He remembered the sound of screaming.

He remembered the sound of gunshots.

He remembered blue eyes and blond hair.

He remembered something warm and sticky staining his shirt.

He remembered red.

So much fucking red.

His hands were stained with it.

And then he woke up. Sitting on the floor of the stage in the bright sparkly blazer he had worn for the performance, his hair crusted in hair gel. He held up his hand and looked at the transparency of his fingers, looked at the slight glow that emitted from his body in the dark and sealed off concert hall.

He could hear the distant sounds of sirens. Police or Ambulance he really couldn't tell the difference.

There were small yellow tags with black numbers littered all over the floor. some of them near pools of what might have been blood.

Brendon slowly raised himself off the floor, the ground wasn’t as solid as it should have felt, his feet seemed to fight to not to fall through the floor with every step.

His eyes caught a shimmer of gold on the floor, the glare shifting with every movement his eyes made.

He slowly walked over to the glittery object, each step of his slightly heeled shoes echoing around the room. He looked down to see a red liquid pooling around the object, he lifted the bottom of each shoe to see if any of it stuck to the soles, lifting an eyebrow when they came away clean.

He finally gathered the courage to look at what he had an increasingly sinking feeling about.

Brendon was met with dead brown eyes and red stained lips.

His brown eyes and lips.

He could feel panic rising in his chest the longer he looked at his cold body, a greyish tin to his normally pink skin.

He was dead.

He had died. And through his own actions, he didn't even have his best friend to talk to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
